


Apotheosis

by menel



Series: The Blind Verse Companion [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiny, Developing Relationship, Episode Tag, M/M, Prophets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in “Pedilavium,” Dean and Castiel each find their own way to deal with the consequences of their actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to ["Respite,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/429952) but follows the events in ["Pedilavium."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/691005) Fulfills the prompt 'body: arms" on my Kiss Bingo card. Dialogue has been liberally lifted or paraphrased from 4x18 The Monster at the End of This Book to suit the purposes of the story. 
> 
> This story was originally posted on my LiveJournal on January 29, 2011.

“So, that was sex,” Castiel stated. 

Dean glanced at the angel who was lying on his back next to him and grinned. “Yeah, that was sex,” he agreed. “Was it good for you?” he asked with a touch of mock politeness. 

“Yes,” Castiel replied, as though it hadn’t been the most mind-blowing experience he’d had in his vessel. “It was very . . . invigorating.” 

Dean had to laugh at that. “Invigorating?” he repeated. “That the best you can do?” 

Castiel looked at Dean. “It is an honest assessment,” he explained. 

Dean laughed again. “This isn’t a sociological experiment,” he pointed out, but his own comment served to give him pause. He looked at Castiel hesitantly. “Is it?” 

“No,” Castiel reassured him, rolling onto his side to face Dean. “This is much more than a sociological experiment.” 

Dean stared at Castiel. “Did you just make a joke?” 

Castiel’s lips quirked upwards. 

“Well, whaddya know? The angel’s learning.” 

Castiel reached out and traced the contours of Dean’s face with a finger. “You are my teacher, Dean,” he said seriously. 

Dean caught Castiel’s hand as he rolled onto his side so that they were facing each other. “You could do a lot better than me, Cas,” he said, just as seriously. 

Castiel shook his head. “No,” he disagreed. “I could not. Nor would I want anyone else.” 

Dean focused on the hand that he held in his. These quiet moments with Cas always seemed to sneak up on him. Cas had pulled a fast one. Dean didn’t even know what to call whatever he had going with Castiel since the pedilavium ritual, but it was definitely new and unchartered territory, even by Winchester standards. 

He was also doing his best not to think about Sam whenever he was with Cas. It wasn’t fair to any of them. But that damn ritual! He had been so caught up in the moment, so completely unprepared for Castiel’s declaration that he had accepted something that he had no right to take, to agree to something that he didn’t fully grasp, to promise something that wasn’t his to give. Obviously, Dean hadn’t brought up the subject with his brother because really, what was he was going to say? _Hi Sam, I’m involved with Castiel now, whatever that means. Thought you should know._ Things with Sam were fucked up enough already. Bringing Cas into the equation was only certain to make matters worse. 

But where did that leave Cas? Or for that matter, where did that leave Dean? Because what was bothering Dean most of all was how rapidly things were progressing with the angel, not just on a physical level (because Dean had never had any problem with physical relationships, and apparently angels were _not_ an exception), but on seemingly every other level there was. Castiel’s responses, how quickly he was learning everything now, was starting to freak Dean out. And Dean’s greatest fear, the one that he held close and refused to acknowledge, was that he was no match for the depth of Castiel’s true emotions. That he was not worthy of Castiel’s love. Because that is what all this boiled down to. Castiel loved him, not in the big, romantic, hearts and chocolates kind of way, but in the selfless, completely devoted, do-anything-for-you sacrificing kind of way. Despite Castiel’s outwardly reserved nature, Dean quickly learned that once the angel came to a decision, moderation did not exist. He was all in or he was all out. 

And Dean? He was holding back. Not just because of Sam, but because Dean realized that if one of them didn’t keep a level head, they would both drown. Dean had to steer this ship because Castiel wouldn’t be able to. As if trying to prevent the Apocalypse wasn’t enough. 

Dean cleared his throat. Evasion was one of his oldest and most successful strategies for not dealing with the serious shit. 

“So,” he began, “you ever going to tell me what this place is?” 

This was the fifth time Castiel had brought him to this room with the strange-colored walls. (The color had driven Dean mad to the point that the last time he and Sam had been at a Dutch Boy paint center, he had rifled through their swatches to identify it. It was periwinkle. Now he’d mentally begun calling the place ‘The Periwinkle Room,’ which was just plain wrong.) Each time the room had been furnished differently, although always very spare with simple tables and chairs. This was the first time there had ever been a bed, and the moment Dean had looked at Cas, it had been quite clear what they were expected to do on that bed. If he hadn’t been so turned on, Dean would’ve laughed. Sometimes Cas had the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who knew? 

“It is my place,” Castiel said simply. 

“Your place?” Dean echoed, watching as Castiel’s long fingers closed over his. “This where you bring all your dates?” 

“I have never brought anyone here but you.” 

Dean met the angel’s eyes. Castiel had done it again. He’d slipped a revealing detail – another deep and meaningful moment – in what Dean had been hoping would be a simple conversation. 

“Since you’ve made me feel all special,” Dean said, going for an offhanded attitude, “don’t I deserve to know where we are?” 

Castiel shook his head. “It is unimportant,” he said steadfastly. 

Dean wasn’t one to give up easily and Castiel’s secretive nature about the room only served to pique his interest more. “Well,” he said casually, “since this is your place, it should reflect your personality.” 

“My personality?” 

“Yeah, this room needs character, y’know, for it to be truly _yours_.” 

“What would give it character?” 

“I dunno. Fill it with the things you like.” 

“I like you.” 

Dean couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Besides me,” he said. “Don’t you have any hobbies? What do angels do for fun?” 

Castiel’s brow furrowed and Dean knew that he was giving the question considerable thought. “What do you like?” he said at last. 

“Cas, we’re talking about what _you_ like,” Dean said gently. 

“I do not know yet,” Castiel admitted. “This room,” he began, then paused. “This space,” he tried again and stopped again. He shook his head. “It is difficult to explain.” 

“Try,” Dean encouraged, giving the angel’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“I created it for you,” Castiel said, “so that I may share it with you. This space . . .” Castiel trailed off, once more searching for the right words. “This space has not always taken this form.” 

“What do you mean ‘this form’?” 

“Each angel is given their own space, their own sanctuary,” Castiel explained. “It is private.” 

“Like you own piece of heaven?” Dean suggested. 

Castiel’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he agreed earnestly. Dean had no idea how close his assessment had actually been. “I may occupy my space in my true form but in order to share it with you, it is necessary to transform it into something . . . tangible. Something habitable.” Castiel looked at Dean worriedly, as though Dean would not have been able to follow his explanation. 

“I get it,” Dean assured him. “Kind of.” 

Truthfully, Dean wasn’t sure he got it but he was able to follow the most important parts, namely, that Castiel was sharing something private and secretive with him, perhaps breaking some angel rules while he was at it. 

“Cas,” he said, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” 

“What do you wish to know?” 

“What’s up with the color of these walls?” 

Castiel looked confused. “You do not like them?” he asked, an unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice. 

“No,” Dean hurriedly said. “Their color is just . . . it’s unusual. What? Is periwinkle your favorite color?” 

“Periwinkle?” 

“Dutch Boy color swatches.” 

Castiel was looking more confused. 

“Never mind.” Dean paused. “But . . . does the color mean something?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “It reminds me of home.” 

“You mean . . . Heaven?” 

“Yes.” 

“Heaven is periwinkle?” 

“No.” Castiel sighed. “In a way, yes.” He was looking at Dean patiently, as though he were about to explain something to a four-year old. Dean was doing his best not to laugh, but the grin was beyond his control. “Heaven does not appear the same way to everyone,” he explained. “It is . . . malleable. This is the color that best captures it for me. It is soothing, peaceful and tranquil; the shade of the sky just before a sunset or in the moments before dawn. It is the color of infinite possibility.” 

Dean was speechless. That explanation was a lot more than he’d bargained for. Not only had Castiel created this room for him, but the angel had designed it as closely to Heaven as he could manage so that he could, in a way, share his home with Dean as well. 

“Wow . . .” Dean said, after several long moments had passed. “That’s . . . awesome.” 

Dean wanted to kick himself. He’d never been the eloquent type, but seriously? Awesome? He couldn’t do better than that? Castiel didn’t seem to mind, however, as he scooted closer, a radiant smile on his face. 

“I’m glad you think so,” the angel said, just before he kissed him.

* * * * *

Castiel had been watching the events unfold with growing concern. He had been following the brothers since Kripke’s Hollow, but had not – _could not_ – reveal himself. It was forbidden. It was not yet time. But as he watched Dean drive back to Chuck’s house, the tarp flapping noisily where the back window of the Impala should have been, Castiel felt his heart grow heavy. It was what Dean would’ve described as a ‘sinking feeling.’ He would face Dean soon enough and he was not looking forward to that confrontation.

* * * * *

“WHAT?”

Dean was beyond incredulous. 

“This guy? A prophet?” 

Dean gave Chuck a quick once-over. “He’s practically a _Penthouse Forum_ writer!” he told Castiel accusingly before returning his attention to the cowering prophet and taking a step towards him. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” 

Chuck could literally feel himself shrinking. If he could’ve crawled into his bottle of whiskey at that moment, he would have. He’d always written Dean as a bad ass, one that he secretly admired, but to come face-to-face with said bad ass who looked like he was about to rip your head off, well . . . the newly anointed prophet was very thankful when Castiel stepped in between them and held Dean off. 

“I . . . uh . . . I might’ve dreamt about it,” Chuck answered, taking cover behind the angel. 

“And you didn’t tell us?” Dean’s tone was lethal. 

“It was preposterous! Not to mention arrogant,” Chuck bristled as he defended himself. “Writing yourself into the story is one thing, but as a prophet? That’s M. Night douchiness.” 

If Dean hadn’t been so incensed, he would’ve appreciated the reference. As it was he focused on Castiel and asked, “This is the guy who’s deciding our fate?” 

Castiel shook his head. “He isn’t deciding anything. He’s a mouthpiece for the inspired Word.” 

“The Word? As in, the Word of God?” Dean didn’t think he could take much more of this. “You mean, like a new New Testament?” he said, only half-jokingly. 

“One day, these books will be known as the Winchester Gospel,” Castiel said without a trace of irony. 

Dean was literally left speechless while Chuck took the opportunity to excuse himself. Still holding his whiskey bottle, he scurried up the stairs, acutely aware of the two pairs of eyes that followed him. When Chuck was out of sight and earshot, Dean turned to Castiel once more. 

“Him? Really?” 

“You should’ve seen Luke,” Castiel responded. 

“Why him?” Dean persisted. 

“I don’t know how prophets are chosen,” Castiel said honestly. “The order comes from high up the celestial chain of command.” 

“How high?” 

“Very.” 

Castiel’s tone told Dean that that avenue of conversation had ended. “Well, whatever,” Dean conceded. “So, how do we get around it?” 

“Around what?” 

“The Sam-Lilith love connection.” 

This was the moment that Castiel had been dreading, even as he knew that worse was to come. He glanced upwards, as though looking up at the heavens, before replying. “What the prophet has written can’t be unwritten,” he stated matter-of-factly. “As he has seen it, so it shall come to pass.”

* * * * *

When Chuck stumbled down the stairs a good three hours later, he wasn’t all that surprised to see an angel sitting on his sofa. He hadn’t actually had a vision about this, but since his heart-to-heart with Sam earlier that day, followed by his quality time with Dean, it made sense that an angel would be waiting for him when he woke up. That was the kind of day he was having.

“Castiel,” he greeted the angel meekly as he entered the living room, heading straight for the coffee table where he knew he’d left a bottle of aspirin. 

Castiel stood up. “Chuck,” he answered with a slight nod of his head. 

Chuck found the bottle of meds and hurriedly uncapped it, popping three pills into his mouth and washing them down with half a mug of cold coffee that he’d left on the coffee table sometime that morning. “What can I do for you?” he asked, finally able to focus on the angel and immediately wishing that he hadn’t. Castiel’s gaze looked like it could burn a hole through him. 

“I wish to speak with you.” 

“You don’t say,” Chuck replied faintly. “About what?” 

“Dean Winchester.” 

Chuck looked nervously around the room. You didn’t need to be a psychic to figure out where this conversation was headed. 

“What about Dean?” 

“You have seen . . .” Castiel paused. “You have seen,” he began again, “how our relationship has developed?” 

Chuck wanted to melt into the floor. He didn’t know what was worse: discussing Castiel’s sex life or Sam’s demon-blood addiction. He suspected that it was the former. 

“I haven’t written about it,” Chuck said hurriedly, “if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve totally kept it out of the books.” Unless the prophet was mistaken, he thought that the angel looked distinctly relieved. 

But instead of voicing his relief, Castiel said seriously, “Why would you do that?” 

Chuck was surprised by the question. He shrugged as he moved some old newspapers so that he could sit down on the sofa. He motioned an invitation that Castiel should do the same. Awkwardly, the prophet and the angel sat down side-by-side, Chuck facing Castiel slightly while he placed his hands on his knees in an attempt to keep himself from fidgeting. Castiel was perfectly composed next to him, his stillness seemingly affecting Chuck and after a few deep breaths, Chuck thought he could answer the question. 

“Editing is part of the writing process as much as anything else,” Chuck said at last. “My material may be divine inspiration, but it still needs to be revised. Proofread. Edited.” 

Castiel gave him a sideways look. “You are saying that there is a human element to prophecy?” 

Chuck was taken aback. He didn’t think that was what he was saying at all. Was he? But when he thought about it, wasn’t that what he’d been doing all along? Before recent events had completely turned his world upside down, hadn’t he believed that Sam and Dean were his creations to do with as he pleased? His writing process had been painful but simple. He would be seized by a debilitating headache, he would drown the pain in whiskey or vodka until he’d pass out. Then he’d have crazy dreams – visions, he now knew – he’d wake up, take some pills and then begin to write. Like a madman, he’d write. Words, scenes, and images would flow out of him and neatly arrange themselves on the page. It was after this mad torrent that things got interesting. Chuck was smart enough to know that he’d never win the Pulitzer, but writing was still about craft. Like any good writer he revised his manuscripts. He re-read them, tweaked a scene here and there, took some scenes out and added others. He looked for consistency in his characters, and he wanted their motivations to be clear. The last word belonged to him. Or he thought it did. What had he jokingly said to Dean when they’d first met? That he was a god? That was still true in a way. All authors were gods of their mini-universes. Did it make a difference that Chuck’s universe had suddenly become the real thing? That the fate of the whole planet would come out of his fingertips? Chuck felt his headache returning. Dealing with epistemological questions and the end of the world was not his strong suit. But when he looked up at Castiel again, the angel’s expression told him that Castiel was waiting for an answer. 

“Uh . . . well . . . hasn’t it always been that way?” Chuck was a chicken and he opted for the safe, rhetorical answer. 

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Prophets are conduits,” he said. “They don’t actually _write_.” 

“You telling me that Peter and John never revised their own work?” Chuck scoffed. 

“No.”  
Chuck thought about this. It would be harder to revise if you were working with parchment. Then he shook his head. Somehow, he didn’t think that’s what Castiel meant. 

“Maybe things are different now,” he suggested. “The old gospels were named after the prophets. The Gospel according to Luke. The Gospel according to John.” He paused. “You called this the Winchester Gospel,” he said hesitantly, “not the Gospel according to Chuck. Maybe Sam and Dean’s story is different.” 

Castiel stayed silent. Already he got the sense that Chuck was right, that Sam and Dean’s story would be different. What he truly wanted to know was what role he would play in that story, what role would he play in Dean’s life. 

“Dean Winchester,” he began again. “Why have you excluded our story from the gospel?” 

“Because it’s not your story,” Chuck answered, immediately regretting his choice of words. “That’s not what I meant to say,” he quickly explained. “I meant that . . .” Chuck trailed off. He took a deep breath. “Some things are best unwritten.” 

“Why?” 

Chuck looked at the angel incredulously. This was like trying to explain to a five-year old why the sky was blue. “Because . . .” 

Castiel was looking at him seriously. 

“You confuse things,” Chuck said at last. “You make the narrative unclear, the motivations more complicated. Besides, I don’t think the boys upstairs would appreciate you playing tonsil hockey with your human charge. It’s safer this way.” 

Castiel didn’t understand the last reference – he would ask Dean about ‘tonsil hockey’ – but Chuck’s answer was clear enough. 

“You don’t think I belong in Dean’s life.” 

“I didn’t say _that_!” Chuck exclaimed. “I can’t imagine you not a part of Dean’s life,” he said honestly. “Not anymore. It’ just . . . what you share with Dean now? It’s borrowed time. You know that, right?” 

Again, Castiel remained silent. Chuck took this as a cue to continue. “You two? You’re good for each other. Watching your relationship grow, it’s like magic. And Dean really needs you right now even though, y’know, he’d never admit something like that. But Dean? He doesn’t do things half-assed. Eventually, he’ll keep pushing and pushing –” 

“Until I break,” Castiel finished for him. 

“Or until he does,” Chuck added. 

The angel stood up. He turned to face Chuck, who was still sitting on the sofa. Even though Castiel was in his human vessel, Chuck felt as though the angel were towering over him. 

“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly. “I understand what I must do.” 

Before Chuck could ask what that was, the angel was gone.

* * * * *

They were in the Periwinkle Room again. Castiel had also taken to calling the room that since Dean had asked him about the color. He liked that the room had a name and that it had been christened by Dean.

They were in bed again. Dean was lying on his front, his right arm slung over the bed’s side. Castiel was so near that he could reach out and touch him, but he didn’t. They had come so far but the angel still felt like he didn’t have the right to touch Dean. Castiel now understood the difference between thinking sinful thoughts and acting upon them. Every moment with Dean was starting to feel like a transgression, every time they made love was an act of disobedience. 

But the act that had haunted Castiel the most was his conversation with Dean in front of the vending machine outside the ‘Red’ motel. He couldn’t stop replaying it in his mind since it had happened two days before. Dean had prayed to him, had actually _prayed_ to him, and Castiel had come. He had already known what Dean would ask and he had felt helpless to respond. Castiel may have been an angel of the Lord, but he was a foot soldier. He couldn’t circumvent divine prophecy, but that was precisely what Dean was asking him to do. He remembered so clearly the desperation on Dean’s face, the pleading that he had never heard before in Dean’s voice. It broke Castiel’s heart to refuse him. But he had. He remembered then how Dean’s expression had hardened, heard the coldness in his voice when he had told Castiel to screw himself. To screw God and their mission. 

Castiel thought back to his conversation with Chuck. _He’ll push and push until eventually you’ll break._ Until one of them would break. Castiel knew that this was only the beginning. It had been a test of will for both of them and they had both passed and failed. There would be more tests to come, harder tests and situations where compromise would not be possible. One of the them _would_ break, and Castiel would never allow it to be Dean. 

Castiel shifted closer until he was leaning over Dean, his head propped in his left hand. Dean was facing away from him and Castiel experimentally reached out and traced Dean’s left shoulder with his fingertips. No reaction. He bent down and placed a soft kiss on Dean’s shoulder. Still no reaction. Another kiss. Slightly lower. Dean shifted. Castiel continued to trail a line of down Dean’s left arm, stopping just before he reached the elbow. 

“What did I say about cuddling?” Dean murmured. 

“This isn’t cuddling,” Castiel informed him. 

Dean smiled to himself. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s bordering on . . . sentimental.” 

Castiel shifted even closer, wrapping his right arm around Dean’s waist and pulling Dean’s body against his until they were perfectly spooned. “This,” Castiel whispered into Dean’s ear, “is cuddling.” 

“It is,” Dean agreed, but he made no move to break out of the angel’s embrace. “You okay?” he asked after a while. 

Although their relationship had become quite physical, Dean recognized that he was the one who always instigated any sort of contact. Castiel was content to follow and was a very active participant once things actually got started, but Dean sensed that Cas was still getting used to the idea of human touch. The angel found the physical sensations of his human vessel fascinating such as eating, drinking among other activities. But most of the time he suppressed these urges and responses since he was able to maintain the vessel through his own power. Ironically, in the beginning, he had deemed these responses to be a nuisance. It was only lately, with Dean, that he had become more adventurous, more experimental. Castiel wanted to experience the world the way Dean did, believing that these shared experiences would bring them closer together. It was part of the learning process. 

But touch. Intimate physical touch was his last barrier. Castiel had understood right away that touch and physical intimacy was important to Dean. Despite Dean’s aversion to cuddling and other outward displays of emotion, he was tactile by nature. An emotional connection of the type Castiel desired would be impossible without the physical element. And so Castiel had worked hard to overcome his hesitancy when it came to human touch. The grounded reality of it all frightened him. It was so different from the world that he inhabited in his angelic form, but he trusted Dean completely. 

Dean’s question hung heavy in the air between them. Castiel was not all right and Dean knew it. “Cas?” he said, when the angel didn’t reply. The arm around his waist tightened and Dean felt a matching tightness in his chest. 

“Do you think that what we share is borrowed time?” 

“Borrowed time?” Dean repeated, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “What makes you say that?” he asked, attempting to be casual even though the question had disturbed him deeply. 

“That is what Chuck called it,” Castiel answered. 

“Chuck? You’ve been talking to the prophet about us?” 

“I thought it prudent.” 

“And that’s all he had to say?” 

Dean was greeted with silence once more and he mentally sighed. Well, this was a reversal of roles. It was normally Sam who had difficulty trying to get him to talk about his feelings. Now the tables had been turned. 

“Cas?” Dean prodded again. 

“Chuck has kept our story out of the gospel,” Castiel finally said. 

“Best damn news I’ve heard in a while,” Dean said, his relief evident. 

“Are you ashamed of us?” 

“What? No!” Dean hesitated. “It’s just . . . we’re still sorting this out, y’know? Seeing how things fit. It’s complicated.” Dean thought that sounded far more reassuring than _I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing._

“It _is_ complicated,” Castiel said somberly. 

“I don’t regret any of it,” Dean said suddenly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” He felt like he should be looking at Cas as he said this, but there was a part of him that was also afraid. It was easier this way, to lay back and take comfort in the angel’s embrace. 

“Nor would I,” Castiel agreed. It gave him a measure of comfort to hear Dean say this. It eased the burden of what he was about to do. They couldn’t go on like this and Castiel believed that he had found a solution. “You should rest, Dean,” he said quietly. 

Dean was already sleepy. Everything was always so peaceful in the Periwinkle Room. Just being here with Cas brought him a kind of calm that was otherwise missing from his life, especially since he got back from Hell. He suspected that Castiel had something to do with that, but he would never ask. As he felt himself drifting off, his mind lingered on Castiel’s words, “borrowed time.” There were always consequences for borrowed time, some kind of debt that had to be paid. He wondered what that would be. 

When Castiel was sure that Dean was asleep, he leaned forward and placed two fingertips on Dean’s forehead. The action would have been painful if Dean had been awake, but Dean continued sleeping as Castiel stripped away his memories of the pedilavium ritual and all their time spent in the Periwinkle Room. Castiel was taking away all of Dean’s memories of their ‘borrowed time.’ Dean needed his head to be clear, his mind uncluttered, his life less complicated. Castiel could do that, and he would always carry with him the memories that they shared. It was enough to know that Dean returned his feelings, that the potential for something truly extraordinary existed between them. It had to be enough because it was not their story that was being written. It was not their time. 

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ is the property of Eric Kripke and The CW. No infringement is intended, no profit is being made.


End file.
